


'Turbine Maintenance'

by Nilysil (Vuetyris)



Category: Warframe
Genre: Anal, Canon-Typical Violence, Cephalon shell body, Fingering, Frotting, Gentle Sex, Multi, Oral, Reader-Insert, Vaginal, genderless reader, misuse of flight controls, one-night stand, reader choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 19:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19752703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vuetyris/pseuds/Nilysil
Summary: Employed to maintain the central coil drive on a Tenno railjack, sometimes it leaves you to fend for yourself - and manage to catch the attention of the Empyrean Cephalon.And are granted a private excursion with one of his shells.-Written with trans and nb readers in mind!-





	1. Buildup

**Author's Note:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> This is a [Reader's Choice] fic, written with trans and nb readers in mind - not catered to a cis audience. There's two options to continue after the first chapter - either vaginal or phallic, the events remain the same.

Boots kick up as the ship suddenly jolts, shaken as the gravitational field surges out of alignment for a split microsecond as armaments collide with the external shielding. It’s a sliding that goes ignored as ribs remain wedged up against the status report panel, an arm looped up against a hitch to keep in place in the spat of combat as again it jolts.

“Helm: Breach in the lower hull,” reads over the comms above and into the earpiece you hand cups over – not your objective as the only weapon sat at your side is a defensive lex. Something to only be used if the intruders wander too close to the coil drive a few steps away, too out of the way to be of any tactical use by any means, but also the last defense for the sensitive equipment. “Port side,” the cephalon’s voice booms, the only thing heard over the distant commotion and the racing pulse that squeezes up your throat. Far enough away to not yet be in danger – but there’s always the worry that comes with the job as your right arm curls around the tether again as the ship begins to bank – evasive maneuvers – your eyes remain clued to the read out display as the central coil drive blooms. Another launch of assault, countermeasures deployed, the same tactical data that reads out within the cephalon’s data banks buried so far further in the railjack’s guts.

Currently, your position remains as primarily observation, at the bridge to the central coil drive deep within the belly of the ship, sat out of the way and position just after a prelude door and snugged up in a crease in the wall ribbing. The coil drive screams just beyond the door, one of the three awesome engines that power the immense calculative functions and the formidable might of the railjack, another bloom that surges through the nearby connectors.

Leg kicking up against a strut, a gloved hand claws up through your hair, heart hammering as the surge and whorls of energy spikes within the vicinity of a nearby sensor. A proximity alert, your head whirls to the nearby door. Corpus, you can only hope as it stings on your tongue, the taste of void energy radiation as you swallow the surge of anxiety. Hand whirling down and yanking the lex out of its holster, you hold it up against your shoulder – eyes remaining glued to the display. Hoping, pleading, that the hot zone doesn’t come any closer, still worried about the wire patching made earlier could withstand another bout of stress. Hoping the most action would be another bloody mess to clean up once the ship returns to the hanger bay.

Heart still caught up in chest, fingers remaining clenched into fist around the lex grip – it’s a relief as the cephalon’s voice comes back over the comms. “Ship secured – what a fucking mess.”

Hair stuck to forehead; you sigh, head falling back against the wall as your arm drops. There’s a pause, rubbing over the bridge of your sweat stung nose before the lex is tucked back into the lent-out holster. Even though your muscles scream, well exhausted, you cannot leave your station as you pull yourself up to your feet, sucking up the dread of several more hours staring between the status screen maintaining the coil drive. Plucking the datapad out of its cradle as the coil goes quiet for the temporary maintenance to reroute the power.

Voice choked up by hammering pants, you swallow again as sweat mats hair against exhausted cheeks, wiping it away feverishly as you wait for the corpus shots screaming past to cease – probably in vain.

Eyes pressing shut, you spit away the drips of sweat as the lex is once more reloaded; there’s too many of them, too many for the lone warframe to handle, perhaps? You hold off any cascading thoughts, scratching past them as your eyes dart to the door to the central coil drive. One of three you remind; the railjack can remain powered with even two offline, but the status of the other two remains unknown as the display has been cut off by the cephalon – taken down to preserve functionality, to prevent a further takeover if you shall fail to defend it.

How many of them are still left? A thought that is as soon discarded as nonetheless you crook your arm around the side of the doorway as it slides open – your hand pressing against the manual unlock panel as your other blind fires down the hallway as scrambles of corpus speak shouts back. Fear sinks in the back of your mind as you pull back once more, clip emptied, door snapped shut; you restock.

“Hostiles eliminated,” drips with distain through the comms above, irritation that trails through the cephalon’s voice. A mission that has since gone awry – you fall back against the wall of the inner central coil drive’s chamber, lit up by the mild glow as your nerves continue to scream, pulse still thumping deep into ears and skull.

There’s a reason it pays so well – a thought that plays through as sight falls close with a sigh.

“Void translation complete,” speaks above.

Sight moving from the myriad of analytics displayed on the datapad, you let it drop against your thigh as you remain reclined against a strut. There’s a moment of silence, fighting to find the will to move as you find joints aching for reprieve as any motion made to stand is met with nervous protests. Another shift since completed, routine to end an excursion still stuck in the coil drive’s chamber until all the safety checks are made. By each of the present turbine structural engineers.

On the way here, you’ve since learned the other two guard posts have been otherwise relieved of their positions, leaving you the last to make the necessary surveillance check on at least two of the void-powered turbines.

And all you can manage out of the stress is a sigh, hand pulling up through hair as the helmet is shoved aside. It might take hours to check them; fingers press between eyes in a squeeze, a moment held before you look back to the currently silent coil drive – the other two still blooming active. Might as well get to work now.

Shoulders cramp as you try to sit upright, heaving a groan as you pull the datapad across the floor as you make confirmation of the replacement actuator is necessary – a pain to make as through the device you can see the workload stacking up for the next crew to deal with before the railjack sets off on another series of missions. Hand pulling up around and above you yank yourself up from a crouch into a squat, working your muscles one over another to give into the stacking demands. Two coil drives checked, it leaves the last one to make a final confirmation – work leftover that still needs to be done, you sigh.

Instead of heading straight over, you move to the exterior corridors. A detour you note in your mind as you pass an engineer waist deep into a maintenance well. As opposed to the commotion that normally takes place, the ship sits comfortably quiet as it drifts salient outside the dojo’s hanger as another railjack has since taken priority.

Leaning hand against glass you look down to where the dojo drifts barely within sight – the railjack notably sat in orbit.

There’s a distinct cadence that speaks your name, barely an encouragement to turn as you have become well acquainted to the cephalon’s voice – aside from speaking your name directly. “Fine work. Your service has been noteworthy,” Cephalon Cy continues as you move to lean against the glass, arms crossing over chest as you take note of the form the cephalon has assumed the appearance of this time. Just as tall, just as imposing, one of several he takes after exhaustive missions.

“Thank you, nice for someone to take notice,” you sneer in partial exhaustion, half glare wandering over the constructed figure of the executive cephalon. Weary mind wandering before you’re able to yank it back away from tempting thoughts.

His arms cross behind his back as the decorative fabric drapes over his shoulders and trim waist, a professionally crafted form that Cephalon Cy had personally drafted – fairly few are able to afford a temporary shell. “You are unaware of your significance today,” he contests, head cast into a tilt as you lean away hopefully still casual. “Port and starboard drives remained out of commission for 3.8 seconds. Overloaded. You’ve held them off long enough for the assisting officers to return.”

It barely raises a brow; but just as easily it’s pulled back down as it’s not your duty to manage the actions of the bridge – you’re merely a turbine engineer. You keep them running, and that’s it. “Of course,” you sigh, moving to lean off the glass, there’s still work to be done. “Starboard coil drive still requires security checks, do they not?” Straight to the point.

“Yes,” the cephalon speaks, barely turning as you round to his other side, uncertain to where he cast his attention. “I could request a delay in the security checks, until we return to the dry dock, should you require rest.” His hands remain cupped at the base of his spine, his posture relaxed, composed, at ease. “It may remain offline,” his words are slow, artificial breath raising through the immaculately detailed shell.

Half wondering if the cephalon is merely playing along, your gloved palm taps against elbow, staring back out into the depth of space. At least with this sect you’ve heard of the ‘casual’ interactions after the stress inducing missions among the populous, and the circulating rumors that at least once a railjack had been privately taken out of port. And with the knowledge that Cephalon Cy has several composite forms at his disposal… you can’t help but wonder.

There’s a pause, a rattle trying to remember the code.

“Strict ‘turbine maintenance’…?” You caution; rumored term for taking a ship out for a pleasant view.

Cephalon Cy does not turn as he remains in place, gleaning over a far distant void storm that only sparkles in the far distance. Overhead, he speaks throughout the ship, “Crew: Approaching dry dock.” And back within the static shell, he sighs and whispers, “we’ll convene privately, keep working,” words laced with interest intent.

Your curiosity sated for now, you pull away from the wall with a smile.

It’s relatively easy for Cephalon Cy to manifest a nuisance error only you can ‘possibly’ solve as the sole coil drive certified engineer available on board, deploying an error within the code brought on by technical faults. The previously noted actuator temporarily scrubbed as the executables from the specified coil drive fail to preform their service checks before docking. Damaged in combat – an easy fib to make that marks it red, set aside until the problem is troubleshot and resolved. All too used to the rolling yaw of the ship from within its depths, you watch as it pulls away from the hanger upon the main deck, watching as the cephalon manually veers it from the dry docks and replaces it with yet another ship. A shift of primarily command that only cephalons can manage to pull off, where Cy remains in control of the several different facets of his weaved consciousness, well aware of each of their movements in the ship body exchange.

Cephalon Cy speaks in the same exact cadence you’ve heard a thousand times before, going through the verbal checks as you remain alone on board the ship. “Railjack positioned in polar orbit,” he calls out over head – maintenance orbit, out of the flight path of the other railjacks. “Crew member: standby for engagement,” the cephalon’s voice reads overhead once more. As emotionally detached as ever, a personality untampered by combat fatigue as you kick up off the wall, walking to the center of the main flight deck.

It doesn’t take long for Cephalon Cy to make his presence known – but not in the quiet steps his shell makes across the metal floor of the railjack, nor in the gentle ruffle of the fabric that drapes across his form, but in the way through the comms he speaks your name in full. A rumble that denotes each syllable sound that moves from around to behind, a gentle request to turn, to face him where he persists a mere few meters away.

Even at a distance you can tell he has since made modifications; his posture resigns more relaxed, shoulders sloped in just a way that leaves the fabric to extravagate his every motion of his tall stature. “Do you still have idle interest?” he remarks, pulling an arm out from behind his back, palm faced up towards you. “I would feel nothing of this, you understand,” he briefs, sightless gaze watching for a confirming approach.

There’s a pause, a step taken, “I assumed as much,” you nearly sneer – not like you had anything more than a passing interest brought on by stress induced desires. To even be mentioned by name was enough to elevate more than a passing interest, but to have a private engagement with the cephalon in control of all the railjacks in the fleet, to get the direct attention of Cephalon Cy to fabricate a lie to set one vessel on standby just for you.

It felt powerful.

So, you take another on approach.

“I see,” the cephalon’s voice drawls, “There is preference to keep my core teams entertain; heart rate and optical intent was obvious for a temporary interest.” He takes your hand into his slightly larger, yet trim, own. Soft shell fingers wrap around your wrist, “for now – Crew: I am merely your ship,” he kneels with an upwards glance, “and you, temporary command. Less,” he pauses voice echoing a rumble of your name, “you require otherwise.”

Warmth inside your guts sits unsatiated, churned by the vocal rumble that breathes through the ship that is Cephalon Cy’s core body – the one in front merely a physical manifestation, a shell intricately made in appearance and function. A draw of arousal that festers as you look to Cephalon Cy, freely letting your thoughts wonder and question; just how capable is a crafted cephalon shell?


	2. V for Vaginal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portion for readers wanting the Vaginal option

Slim artificial fingers quest around the security band of your upper uniform, a seal that keeps the issued suit pieces in place as your sight wanders over the cephalon’s form before you, the uncaught sight as the large yet nimble fingers undo the fasteners, further freeing you to exhale a deep sigh as your chest becomes uncompressed. Your own hands yank it further off, draping it haphazardly over the directional control module just behind you with sight basking out into the depths of space. Though for a moment it draws a pause, as indulgent as you prefer to go, there’s still the mild fear that snares sight to the glass.

“Worry not,” Cephalon Cy sighs, unclasping the harness keeping your pants in place, “all transposed display, no actual exposure.” And just as casually he undoes the harness clasp in an offer to the side, letting the fabric go slightly slack beneath his palms. It still hangs around your hips by button, zipper, and strap, everything to keep it all in place during the height of a mission, but now, you just want them all gone – taking care of it all yourself under his watchful gaze.

“There,” you huff, hitching hips off to the side as the inner strap finally goes lax, hanging off its hitch as you lean back against the central control module – its arms pulled tight to form a mild cradle. With Cephalon Cy in direct control of the railjack’s motions the module remains inactive, free to posture against as you stare down to the attention brought against your hips, past the vest jacket and undershirt issued to keep wick sweat from your skin.

It runs a flush over your face as he leans in, thumbs cradling at the hem of the uniform pants in a drift, watching the sightless gaze breath as in reaction your legs shuffle – desiring.

You question; if no mouth, will it all just be fingers?

“Comfortable?” he asks, thumb hitched over the band of your pants. Waiting patiently for confirmation.

And you nod, watching as the artificial fingers ease them downwards, freeing your legs of the restraint of pants, of the barriers of undergarments as the sight presenting warms your face. Being as such exposed to him – biting lip, you can’t help but stare at where he continues to remain, helping you to pull them free over your boots, discarding them away so carefully and seamlessly. Crotch well exposed, where the furls of hair covers remains as the last barrier between the cold and wanton heat, you swallow, watching as the cephalon returns in grip.

“Nervous?” he questions, hands remaining still at your hips, smooth artificial fingers spreading over skin.

“Well, yeah,” you laugh, looking down to where the faceplate hovers so close to the spread of your legs, towards the slight split you make of your labia as you shuffle beneath his palms. A noticeable noise no doubt in the silence that fills the Cephalon’s vessel halls.

“Shall we proceed,” he questions, stalling as he waits for acknowledgement, sight remained trained on the forest between your legs. To which you nod; nervous, yet eager. And to much relief its expressed through a sigh as thumb finds your flesh, underside of an artificial claw stroking up along the underside of your clit a slow draw, careful in its motion as it eases thighs open, coaxing muscles to relax beneath his gentle palms and the cradle of the flight controls at your back. Up between you can feel the soft material pet between lips, where they find the clitoral hood and stroke it to expose the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Eyes closing, you sigh – and gasp where slickness meets between your divided lips, sight lulling to peak down between your legs.

Flesh coaxes from the underside of the featureless helm, a glowing manifestation in maroon and vanta black that laps upwards a gentle kiss. A generous surprise by any measure, leaning yourself against slight fingering palm as you watch the slim fingers work between the forest of hair, where the broad flex of the crafted muscle laps over labia and against the slight clench of muscles. A sight that draws more warmth over your features, knuckling a hand against your mouth, other hand questioning a grasp before it finally falls onto the cephalon’s helm.

“Do you request more?” His voice rumbles not from below, oh no, but from the comms above you, around you.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice dripping between your teeth as the broad stroke returns between your lips.

It’s where the cadence rumble of the cephalon’s voice continues in declaring desire. “Is this satisfying,” the broad surface laps, thumb meeting over the nervous bundle that is your clit, rubbing it as the muscles of the artificial tongue meet the reactive clench of muscles, coaxing it as your fingers palm, fisting against the shape of the cephalon’s shell head.

“Very,” your breathing huffs, “how often have you…” your question hangs, halted by a simmering exhale as your hips shuffle to meet the kiss of warmth before it withdraws.

“Enough,” is all he states, hands casting back to pull your hips forth, meeting them with the structure of his false mouth as the slick organ slides between your lips, dividing them further, flexing inside as the cool of his helm meets against clit. It draws a quiver through your throat, fingers splaying over the smooth shell structure as the muscles once more flex.

Over and over, the crafted muscle flexes against your walls, the cephalon’s shell hands hold your shuffling in place as you groan and sigh, nerves quivering as your head falters back, eyes dropping close as you release a full body exhale. You can feel as fingers wander over your hips, down against your thighs, questing for more as the fulfilling thrusts coax your hips to rock, to sway for more of the wanton desire centered within your loins. “Fuck,” you whisper, hand finding grip of his helm.

The flex of the muscular appendages flickers upwards as it departs, pulling a gasp from your lungs as you tremble. An eye peers open, watching as the cephalon’s featureless shell departs from between your thighs, suggesting you forth away from the makeshift cradle.

“Is there need for something more?” He suggests with a curdled chuckle, watching you squirm as his hands drift. Fingers over thighs, it leaves you agape to the air as you pull your legs back together – not out of shame, but the moisture that remains makes it colder than usual; especially as his makeshift mouth departed.

“Like what,” you blurt, unrestrained as you wonder for yourself – if he was able to procure a mouth for the shell, what could he else could he possibly possess…?

“Come,” he offers as he steps back, hands departing from your thighs as he moves back to stand to his full height – towering over you. Despite the caution you brief your thoughts – there’s a squeeze in your pelvic floor, a clench in your muscles. You follow his palm that coaxes you down from the ramp that holds the control platform, taken by curiosity.

Sight drawn to the peak of energy that blooms from the crotch of his shell body.

“Knees,” he suggests alone in his shell body; but just as easily you have already folded yourself down onto them, curious hands meeting the sleek form of the cephalon’s current shell. Beneath your hand the material is as soft as flesh, just as firm as the grip you make against the toned artificial muscles beneath as the peak begins to grow and drip self-sufficient lubricant.

“Is it –” you swallow, staring up to the sightless gaze.

“Safe for ingestion,” he tones, “should you wish.”

In the back of your mind; why not?

Cautiously you meet the presenting erection, thumb crooking up beneath the sleek shaft as the ruby and maroon structure glints in the light, aglow and slick by internal lubricant as it presses up into its full apparent structure. It fills up a single hand at first, hand squeezing around its soft exterior and around the inner ridged shape – ribbed just beneath the soft surface. The thought of fitting around it… it’s a thought that’s drawn out as your unattended hand returns between your thighs, cupping against your lips in thought.

“It adapts,” Cephalon Cy artificially sighs, “would you prefer something else?” He questions as he looks down, his posture void of emotion as he watches with perked curiosity. Merely a tilt in his featureless helm.

“No. No…” your view casts from turned up to return to the presented erection, uncertain just how much the cephalon can feel as you fist your hand around it, stroking down around it and over the gentle inner ribbing. And, on second thought you pause, staring at the mild glow with furled brows. Perhaps… you wet your lips, eyes glancing up without turning away from the arousal present before you. There’s another pause, a sigh; “could I…?”

“Certainly,” the cephalon purrs, taking stock of your awkward positioning below a palm eases your hand away from his erection. “One moment,” he briefs, guiding you to stand before he turns you around as he rounds back – his back turned to the flight controls. And back he lies against it, his systems compensating for his shell body’s weight as he cradles him comfortably as a makeshift seat. With yourself back knelt before him, settled down between his muscular legs and granted further access to the marbling red girth.

And you can feel the engines sigh beneath your hands as you take the girth once more, manipulating it to perk upwards as you pull yourself up closer towards it and between the cephalon’s thighs. With reignited fervor you press your fingertips against the soft exterior, other pressing against Cy’s stomach as you fascinate yourself in the surely expensive organ structure granted to you. Beneath the internal structure begins to change its shape, organic components altering themselves to press the ribbing more pronounced, the sleek surface expressing the mimicry veins as you indulge into the shifting weight.

Mouth against the head, you tease the indulgence as you can feel the shell relax beneath your grip, can feel the air pressure drop for a moment before the internal atmosphere dips back into nominal. “Systems are still tethered,” he growls, “symbiotic connection severed, continue,” you can hear the lace in his breath as the lubricant sticks against your lips, a sterile refreshing taste as you return to the girth, cradling it as you glide your mouth along the texture decorated sides. Ribs, veins, sloped down into a hitching joint that connects to the internal structure beneath the shell’s crotch.

He sighs as you take him in, and a glance up brings your loins to quiver – bared to the cabin air. And you cannot take much of him inside your mouth – untrained to take such a sudden size with a gasp of returning air to your lungs.

“Difficulties?” Cephalon Cy sighs, a hand curling up through your hair. It coaxes you to look upwards, sight meeting with the sightless face plate. A nod. “Very well,” he rumbles, fingers gentle as he pulls you away from his erection, guiding you to lean forth, to approach between his thighs as your hips rest against his thighs – the comparison of you body against his girth causes you to flush. He’s large.

His hands glide down from beneath your arms, hands gripping against ass as you lean up against his slim form, fist pulling into a fabric drape. You can’t help but roll your hips against the suggestion of being dominate to the ship cephalon. Above him, dominating him even as his hands pull around your thighs, pulling you up upon his lap as he stares up to your smaller stature upon him. “Comfortable?” His audio purrs upwards, observing as your hands fumble against his pecs, against the ethereal form.

You can’t help but to laugh, taken in by the sheer splendor view beneath you. Light shines off his hard components in just a way to accentuate his movements, angled in just the way your own shadows are cast just right on the cephalon’s shell to soak in more than aesthetic brilliance. “Yes, you really have the nerve to…” you catch yourself from becoming too attached – just temporary, no emotional tethering to it as he had said before either of you began the engagement.

“To look this brilliant?” the dry wit is sharp as his hands pull once more, moving your crotch up against his pressed arousal that glows in the mild shadows. “As I’ve been told by the tenno. I am empyrean; Cephalon Cy. Not many are like me.”

Hand pressing against the fabric covering that drapes over his form, you grunt. Of course, he’d be one of a kind types to craft his shells to be as stunning as possible; a part of you question if he’s had time with one of many tenno. It’s a thought cast aside as fingers crease over your rear, feeling as the warmth presses against your lips beneath as he brings you to bob against him. His size is daunting as you sigh, fist balling against his chest as you stare down the remains of your uniform that still remains on your upper body – just enough to keep it warm as the cabin chill still picks against your exposed legs. It’s a chill chased away only by the internal warmth that radiates out from the cephalon’s shell. Is it for your own health? You’re uncertain as his suggestion coaxes your own body to move, rocking your lips against the rising warmth. How much might you be able to fit?

“Worried?” the cephalon breathes through his shell.

“Kinda…” you curdle, lip partly curled before it eases back with a sigh brought on as you continue to rock against the soft-firm erection, easing yourself forth to lean against the shell as your clit presses against the daunting head. “Wondering… if it’d fit.”

“It will,” you can feel his shell breathe beneath your palms as his hands grip against your exposed ass, coaxing yourself to lift further upwards, up against the arching arms of the flight controls as he coaxes you to kneel. Legs pressed against his own, you watch as he lifts you with ease – your hands gripping the flight controls as the erection casts itself upwards before you rest back upon his stomach – the erection pressed against your lips from behind.

“How…?” You look to the featureless face.

“Carefully,” his voice reverbs as he guides the arms of the flight controls to suggest for you to hold on, easing you again into a kneel as the case of light between your bodies cast it to perk – one of his hands direct it as his other cradles against your thigh. “Ready?” you can feel the ship sigh, a temporary down-thrust of the engines.

Biting your lip, you wiggle in his grasp; you can feel your body wanting with a simple clench of muscles where the erection kisses at your clit. A direction against it to tease as you can just feel the smirk that breathes through the cephalon’s shell.

For a moment you frown, what a bastard.

You nod.

A gasp pulls through your lungs as his head presses against the ease of muscles, careful in the applied pressure of his palms against your thighs as he guides your bodies to meet. Back and forth you rock, daunted by the ribbing that slowly works itself into your body, eyes drooping shut as mouth hangs open. “Fuck,” crawls through your throat, hands prying against the fabric draped over the cephalon’s chest as he coaxes your bodies together.

The pressure centered in your groin swells as slicken lips meet his base, grinding against him as his hands remain at your hips. The handles of the flight controls pull back to form the backing of the makeshift recliner the cephalon’s shell body rests.

Hands wring into the fabric, pulling against it as the cradle of the cephalon’s palms pet over your thighs, petting over them as you rock around the penetration, yet still aching for more attention. Pulling forth you yank yourself up into a partial kneel to slide the girth pass your lips – but his palm keeps them from going too far. The flight controls rise him to sit up, “let me,” his voice purrs. Not just below, but once more through the coms system.

To receive such attention… you moan, pressing yourself in full around him, hand palming. It feels so unreal.

“Cy,” you sigh – of course your first utterance would be from upon him.

Cephalon Cy sighs in return, his fingers splaying over your thighs as he begins to roll his hips up and against, fingers pressing gently against your skin as he thrusts. A rhythm that brings your body to bob as your own hips motion in return – grinding around the thrusts that fulfill your whispers and groans. Desire aches you to sit upright around him, fingertips pressing down upon his stomach before pressing against the base of your stomach.

“Fuck,” drips from you once more, a hand curling up momentarily into your hair as the cephalon rumbles beneath. Pulling away from the sight of the ship cephalon, you look to the sight that makes the pilot position, where the dojo remains a steady distance beyond the transposed view. It allows you to bask in the tempting sight as you continue to ride, fingers wring into fabric once more.

The sound of meeting slick and self-satisfying lubricant sounds fills the space between your gasps and the cephalon’s gentle sighs – to which you rock yourself up against him, fisting into the fabric drape. “Hmn,” you yank a fistful of the fabric, curling it around as his palms pry forth over thighs. “Ahn, damn,” drips from your mouth.

“Satisfied?” you can taste the cephalon’s vocal smirk, legs brought to squeeze around the exposed hips.

Still mid buck, you huff, “no,” and continue.

A hand leaves your thigh, fingers pressing and dividing against your lips before he coaxes you to sit back, to pull himself free of your walls as he redirects backwards, his strength holding you open to the cabin air as your body grasp back – and drops your jaw further in a gasp as he meets your bodies, coaxing your back to arch, to gasp.

“Cy,” you whimper as his sleek girth begins to pressure inside, working itself beyond the taut muscle ever so gently.

“Cephalon Cy,” he corrects, and it goes ignored as your thighs press against his thighs – he holds a wrist away from the ache of your clit. “Allow me,” he rumbles as he draws your body against him, holding back the thrusts that once made you bounce. A short break period to let you acclimate to the girth pressing inside your rear – satisfied as his palm pets against your lips.

“Cy,” oozes between your trembling lips, wanton as the fingers delve inside your body as thumb brushes against clit. “Please,” you tempt a whimper.

To which you can feel the ship pitch forward, gravity coaxing you down against his chest as the engines sigh. Fingers curling into the fabric you continue to buck and meet his slow drawn thrusts. Gentle as any other patient lover, you’re well aware of the emotional detachment the cephalon possesses, but you can’t help but to cry out his name, chasing yourself to peak upon his shell body. You can feel as he sighs your name, an utterance that draws your legs to squeeze, for hips to hitch into the finger thrusts and the filling erection that pins you in place.

As your breathing begins to hitch, you pull yourself to lean against his body, fists balling against the mimicry of collarbones as he strokes over your clit towards completion. Legs twist around his slim thighs, pressing his hips into your own as you buckle against the palm pressing against your groin. Settled in place he merely observes as your breathing hitches. Aching, wanting, you whimper for more.

And it’s with a sigh that Cephalon Cy supplies.

Leg muscles quiver as viscous material begins to fill your body, remarked with the smallest of a moan from the cephalon’s shell. It’s a directed orgasm that sets your nerves over the edge, tumbling over the peak as his thumb finds pause against your clit as your hips buck, as your hands plead into the fabric that decorates his shell’s form.

As your breathing huffs, you can’t help but to take one more look to the cephalon’s remarkably expensive shell, and the sight of the distant stars that dot in the distance.


	3. P for Phallic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Portion for readers wanting the Phallic option!

Slim artificial fingers quest around the security band of your upper uniform, a seal that keeps the issued suit pieces in place as your sight wanders over the cephalon’s form before you, the uncaught sight as the large yet nimble fingers undo the fasteners, further freeing you to exhale a deep sigh as your chest becomes uncompressed. Your own hands yank it further off, draping it haphazardly over the directional control module just behind you with sight basking out into the depths of space. Though for a moment it draws a pause, as indulgent as you prefer to go, there’s still the mild fear that snares sight to the glass.

“Worry not,” Cephalon Cy sighs, unclasping the harness keeping your pants in place, “all transposed display, no actual exposure.” And just as casually he undoes the harness clasp in an offer to the side, letting the fabric go slightly slack beneath his palms. It still hangs around your hips by button, zipper, and strap, everything to keep it all in place during the height of a mission, but now, you just want them all gone – taking care of it all yourself under his watchful gaze.

“There,” you huff, hitching hips off to the side as the inner strap finally goes lax, hanging off its hitch as you lean back against the central control module – its arms pulled tight to form a mild cradle. With Cephalon Cy in direct control of the railjack’s motions the module remains inactive, free to posture against as you stare down to the attention brought against your hips, past the vest jacket and undershirt issued to keep wick sweat from your skin.

It runs a flush over your face as he leans in, thumbs cradling at the hem of the uniform pants in a drift, watching the sightless gaze breath as in reaction your legs shuffle – desiring.

You question, if no mouth, would it only be fist?

“Comfortable?” he asks, thumb hitched over the band of your pants. Waiting patiently for confirmation.

And you nod, watching as the artificial fingers ease them downwards, freeing your legs of the restraint of pants, of the barriers of undergarments as the sight presenting warms your face. Being as such exposed to him – biting lip, you can’t help but stare at where he continues to remain, helping you to pull them free over your boots, discarding them away so carefully and seamlessly. Crotch well exposed, where the furl of hair merely frames the nervous arousal in the cold cabin air, you swallow, watching as the cephalon returns in grip.

“Nervous?” he questions, hands remaining still at your hips, smooth artificial fingers spreading over skin.

“Well, yeah,” you laugh, looking down to where his faceplate remains in range of the slightest twitch your body makes, wiggling beneath his palms with a noticeable sigh as thoughts wander – no doubt notable in the silence that fills the Cephalon’s vessel halls.

“Shall we proceed,” he questions, stalling as he waits for acknowledgement, sight remained trained on your nervous erection. To which you nod; nervous, yet eager. And to much relief its expressed through a sigh as a palm guides your member to perk, an underside of an artificial claw stroking up along your shaft in a slow draw, careful in its motions as it gently guides hips backwards, coaxing tense muscles to go lax beneath his gentle palms and the cradle of the flight controls at your back. Up between you can feel the soft material edge along your skin, up along the junction of your head where it continues to stroke down in a loose fist.

Eyes closing, you sigh – and gasp when warmth meets your tip, sight lulling to peak down to the twitching ache.

Flesh coaxes from the underside of the featureless helm, a glowing manifestation in maroon and vanta black that traces over the underside tip. A generous surprise by any measure, leaning yourself against the settling palm as you watch the hands move to only guide, a singular thumb enough to guide your twitching arousal towards the broad flex of the craft muscles. It’s a sight that draws more warmth over your features, knuckling a hand against your mouth, other hand questioning a grasp before it finally falls onto the cephalon’s helm.

“Do you request more?” His voice rumbles not from below, oh no, but from the comms above you, around you.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice dripping between your teeth as the broad stroke returns beneath your shaft.

It’s where the cadence rumbles of the cephalon’s voice continues in declaring desire. “Is this satisfying,” the broad surface laps, thumb stroking against the underside base, rubbing against the junction of your arousal and sack as the muscles of the artificial tongue meet your head. It coaxes as your fingers palm, fisting against the shape of the cephalon’s shell head.

“Very,” your breathing huffs, “how often have you…” your question hangs, halted by a simmering exhale as your hips shuffle to meet the drifting warmth that withdraws.

“Enough,” is all he states, hands casting back to pull your hips forth, meeting your erection with the structure of the false mouth as the slick organ coils around the base of your shaft, pulling it around and squeeze as the cool of his helm meets your head. It draws a quiver through your throat, fingers splaying over the smooth shell structure as the muscles flex.

Back and forth, the crafted muscles pull around your girth, the cephalon’s shell hands hold your shuffling in place as you groan and sigh, nerves twitching as your head falters back, eyes dropping close as you release a full body exhale. You can feel as fingers wander over your hips, down against your thighs, questing for more as the stroking coaxes your hips to rock, to sway for more to indulge in the wanton desire twitching against his shell’s faceplate. “Fuck,” you whisper, hand finding grip of his helm.

The coil of the muscular appendages strokes a swirl as it departs, pulling a sigh through your lungs as you tremble. An eye peers open, watching as the cephalon’s featureless shell departs from your erection, suggesting you forth away from the makeshift cradle.

“Is there need for something more?” He suggests with a curdled chuckle, watching you squirm as his hands drift. Fingers over thighs, it leaves you to twitch half erect in the air as you remain settled – slick artificial lubricant remains around your shaft and draws a shiver; colder than usual especially after his makeshift mouth departed.

“Like what,” you blurt, unrestrained as you wonder for yourself – if he was able to procure a mouth for the shell, what could he else could he possibly possess…?

“Come,” he offers as he steps back, hands departing from your thighs as he moves back to stand to his full height – towering over you. Despite the caution you brief your thoughts – there’s a squeeze in your pelvic floor, a twitch in your exposed erection. You follow his palm that coaxes you down from the ramp that holds the control platform, taken by curiosity.

Sight drawn to the peak of energy lighting that blooms from the crotch of his shell body.

“Knees,” he suggests alone in his shell body; but just as easily you have already folded yourself down onto them, curious hands meeting the sleek form of the cephalon’s current shell. Beneath your hand the material is as soft as flesh, just as firm as the grip you make against the toned artificial muscles beneath as the peak begins to grow and drip self-sufficient lubricant.

“Is it –” you swallow, staring up to the sightless gaze.

“Safe for ingestion,” he tones, “should you wish.”

At the back of your mind; why not?

Cautiously you meet the presenting erection, thumb crooking up beneath the sleek shaft as the ruby and maroon structure glints in the light, aglow and slick by internal lubricant as it presses up into its full apparent structure. It fills up a single hand at first, hand squeezing around its soft exterior and around the inner ridged shape – ribbed just beneath the soft surface. The thought of somehow fitting such a girth… it’s a thought drawn out as your wandering hand returns down to the floor, fingers tenting your erection against your thigh.

“It adapts,” Cephalon Cy artificially sighs, “would you prefer something else?” He questions as he looks down, his posture void of emotion as he watches with perked curiosity. Merely a tilt in his featureless helm.

“No. No…” your view casts from turned up to return to the presented erection, uncertain just how much the cephalon can feel as you fist your hand around it, stroking down around it and over the gentle inner ribbing. And, on second thought you pause, staring at the mild glow with furled brows. Perhaps… you wet your lips, eyes glancing up without turning away from the arousal present before you. There’s another pause, a sigh; “could I…?”

“Certainly,” the cephalon purrs, taking stock of your awkward positioning below a palm eases your hand away from his erection. “One moment,” he briefs, guiding you to stand before he turns you around as he rounds back – his back turned to the flight controls. And back he lies against it, his systems compensating for his shell body’s weight as he cradles him comfortably as a makeshift seat. With yourself back knelt before him, settled down between his muscular legs and granted further access to the marbling red girth.

And you can feel the engines sigh beneath your hands as you take the girth once more, manipulating it to perk upwards as you pull yourself up closer towards it and between the cephalon’s thighs. With reignited fervor you press your fingertips against the soft exterior, other pressing against Cy’s stomach as you fascinate yourself in the surely expensive organ structure granted to you. Beneath the internal structure begins to change its shape, organic components altering themselves to press the ribbing more pronounced, the sleek surface expressing the mimicry veins as you indulge into the shifting weight.

Mouth against the head, you tease the indulgence as you can feel the shell relax beneath your grip, can feel the air pressure drop for a moment before the internal atmosphere dips back into nominal. “Systems are still tethered,” he growls, “symbiotic connection severed, continue,” you can hear the lace in his breath as the lubricant sticks against your lips, a sterile refreshing taste as you return to the girth, cradling it as you glide your mouth along the texture decorated sides. Ribs, veins, sloped down into a hitching joint that connects to the internal structure beneath the shell’s crotch.

He sighs as you take him in, and a glance up brings yourself to twitch between your legs – bared to the cabin air. And you cannot take much of him inside your mouth – untrained to take such a sudden size with a gasp of returning air to your lungs.

“Difficulties?” Cephalon Cy sighs, a hand curling up through your hair. Coaxing you to look upwards, sight meeting with sightless face plate. A nod. “Very well,” he rumbles, fingers gentle as he pulls you from his erection, guiding you to lean forth, to approach between his thighs as your erection peaks against his own – twice as large, you flush.

His hands glide down from beneath your arms, hands gripping against ass as you lean up against his slim form, fist pulling into a fabric drape. You can’t help but to hump against the languishing girth as your own arousal touches his own, not just against the sensation but to the suggestion of begin dominate to the ship cephalon. Above him, dominating him even as his hands pull around your thighs, pulling you up onto his lap as he stares up to your smaller stature upon him. “Comfortable?” His audio purrs upwards, observing as your hands fumble against his pecs, against the ethereal form.

You can’t help but to laugh, taken in by the sheer splendor view beneath you. Light shines off his hard components in just a way to accentuate his movements, angled in just the way your own shadows are cast just right on the cephalon’s shell to soak in more than aesthetic brilliance. “Yes, you really have the nerve to…” you catch yourself from becoming too attached – just temporary, no emotional tethering to it as he had said before either of you began the engagement.

“To look this brilliant?” his dry wit is sharp as his hands pull once more, pressing your erections against the other as his own glows in the mild shadows. “As I’ve been told by the tenno. I am empyrean; Cephalon Cy. Not many are like me.”

Hand pressing against the fabric covering that drapes over his form, you grunt. Of course, he’d be one of the kind types to craft his shells to be as stunning as possible; a part of you question if he’s had time with one of the many tenno. It’s a thought cast aside as fingers crease over your rear, feeling as the warmth presses against your erection as he brings you to rock against him. His size is daunting as you sigh, fist balling against his chest as you stare down the remains of your uniform that still remains on your upper body – just enough to keep it warm as the cabin chill still picks against your exposed legs. It’s a chill chased only by the internal warmth that radiates out from the cephalon’s shell. Is it for your own health? You’re uncertain as his suggestions coax your own body to move, thrusting your erection against his rising warmth as you wonder just how, how long might you last?

“Worried?” the cephalon breathes through his shell.

“Kinda,” you curdle, lip partly curled before it eases back with a sight brought on as you continue to rock against the soft-firm erection, easing your erection against the guide of slicken warmth. Your balls ache against it.

“It will,” you can feel his shell breathe beneath your palms as his hands grip against your exposed ass, coaxing yourself to lift upwards, up against the arching arms of the flight controls as he coaxes you to kneel. Legs pressed against your own, you watch as he lifts you with ease – your hands gripping the flight controls as the erection casts itself upwards before you sit back on his stomach – the erection pressing up against your ass, balls settled against the top of his girth.

“How…?” You look to the featureless face.

“Carefully,” his voice reverbs as he guides the arms of the flight controls to suggest for you to hold on, easing you again into a kneel as the case of light between your bodies cast it to perk – one of his hands direct it as his other cradles against your thigh. “Ready?” you can feel the ship sigh, a temporary down-thrust of the engines.

Biting your lip, you wiggle in his grasp; you can see your erection dripping with pre, eagerly twitching as the erection kisses your rear. A teasing, you can just feel the smirk that breathes through the cephalon’s shell.

For a moment you frown, what a bastard.

You nod.

You hope the cephalon’s lubrication is enough…

A gasp pulls through your lungs as his head presses against the ease of muscles, careful in the applied pressure of his palms against your thighs as he guides your bodies to meet. Back and forth you rock, daunted by the ribbing that slowly works itself into your body, eyes squeezing shut as mouth hangs open. “Fuck,” crawls through your throat, hands wringing into the fabric draped over the cephalon’s chest as he works your bodies together.

The pressure worked into your rear swells in the firing of nerves as it meets to completion, leaving you to writhe and whimper against him as his hand remain at your hips. The handles of the flight controls pull back to form the backing of the makeshift recliner the cephalon’s shell body rests.

Hands wring into the fabric, pulling against it as the cradle of the cephalon’s palms pet over your thighs, petting over them as your body trembles around the penetration, aching for more as your erection dribbles against his stomach. Pulling forth, you yank yourself back into a partial kneel to slide the girth past your still tense muscles – but his palm keeps them from going too far. The flight controls rise him to sit up, “easy,” he purrs, “let me,” his voice rumbles. Not just below, but once more around through the coms system.

To receive such attention… you whimper, pressing erection up against the cephalon’s stomach. It feels so unreal.

“Cy,” you sigh – of course your first utterance would be from upon him.

Cephalon Cy sighs in return, his fingers splaying over your thighs as he brings to roll his ups up and against, fingers pressing gently against your skin as he thrusts. It’s a rhythm that brings your body to bob as your own hips motion in return – thrusting against his stomach as his girth ease taut muscles loosen. Aching you quest yourself to sit once more in full around him, hand pressing against your stomach for the perk inside you.

“Fuck,” drips from you once more, a hand curling up momentarily into your hair as the cephalon rumbles beneath. Pulling away from the sight of the ship cephalon, you look to the sight that makes the pilot position, where the dojo remains a steady distance beyond the transposed view. It allows you to bask in the tempting sight as you continue to ride, fingers wring into fabric once more.

The meeting class of hips and the self-satisfying lubricant fills the space between your gasps and the cephalon’s gentle sighs – to which you rock yourself up against him, fisting into the fabric drape. “Hmn,” you yank a fistful of the fabric, curling it around as his palms pry forth over thighs. “Aah, fuck,” drips from your mouth.

“Satisfied?” you can taste the cephalon’s vocal smirk, legs brought to squeeze around the exposed hips.

Still mid thrust, you huff, “no,” and continue.

A hand leaves your thigh, coiling down beneath your stomach before it pulls around the twitching erection that once pressed against his stomach. It yields you forth, a hand grasping back against his thigh as he fists around your erection, drawing it upwards to coax out a gasp.

“Cy,” you whimper.

“Cephalon Cy,” he corrects, and it goes ignored as you thrust against his enrapturing palm. “Allow me,” he rumbles as he draws your body to settle against his hips, holding you nearly still as he churns your erection within his palm as you quiver, balls aching against the cephalon’s junction of stomach and groin.

“Cy,” oozes between your trembling lips, wanton as the first pulls the drips of lubricate that has been once settled at his base, coating over your head as his thumb presses beneath. “Please,” you tempt a whimper.

To which you can feel the ship pitch forward, gravity coaxing you down against his chest as the engines sigh. Fingers curling into the fabric you continue to buck and meet his slow drawn thrusts. Gentle as any other patient lover, you’re well aware of the emotional detachment the cephalon possesses, but you can’t help but to cry out his name, chasing yourself to peak upon his shell body. You can feel as he sighs your name, an utterance that draws your legs to squeeze, for hips to hitch into the palm around your erection and the filling penetration that pins you in place.

As your breathing begins to hitch, you pull yourself to lean against his body, fists yanking against the mimicry of collarbones as he pulls you into completion. Legs twist against his slim thighs, pressing yourself forth against his stomach as the palm drifts to catch the energetic spurts. Settled in place he merely observes as your breathing hitches. Aching, wanting, you whimper for more.

And it’s with a sigh that Cephalon Cy supplies.

Leg muscles quiver as viscous material begins to fill your body, remarked with the smallest of a moan from the cephalon’s shell. It’s a directed orgasm that sets your nerves over the edge, tumbling over the peak as your hips buck against his palm, pressed against his smooth stomach as your hands plead into the fabric that decorates his shell’s form.

As your breathing huffs, you can’t help but to take one more look to the cephalon’s remarkably expensive shell, and the sight of the distant stars that dot in the distance.


End file.
